(30/9/03)
Sometimes I come across shiit on the Internet that justifies being spammed out to every man and his dog.
I'm not talking about stupid unfunny jokes about crap we've all been forwarded 4 trillion times already whenever someone finally works out what that little "Outlook Express" icon actually does and ventures into email for the first time... I'm talking about shiit that I find funny or “out there”, which (now lets face it) is gonna be damn funny, or damn “out there” to waste my time.
I
have decided not to send out email to undeserving people anymore, instead I
will place item of interest I find on this web site!
Seeing as this is the first entry in “Bollocks ‘n Stuff” (I feel like Kelly off of Married with Children when she started up her own show…) I will provide an old and a new entry. First up is the new. This site is really “out there”. Hint, you have to click on stuff and work out what shiit does to progress to the next page:
http://www.freshsensation.com/samorost.swf
I
have managed to finish it (and avert disaster), but I’m awesome.
Now for the old (something I’ve already sent out). This is what I call funny, and deserved to be placed on my web site (especially when my Mum said she ended up crying with laughter half way through). Read it when you’ve got the time:
This came from the triangle.dining newsgroup, and is about Ryan's SteakHouse Restaurant in Raleigh , NC . Pretty damn funny.
Now,
I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am
aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a
story to tell that is the absolute truth.
Funniest
damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to
cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which
means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the
week that it is served.
Wednesday
night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering
from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It
may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two
circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We
went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar
then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order
to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar.
Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you
-- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into
my belly. I was sated.
Perhaps
bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a
bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I
was in real trouble.
There
was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing.
At
the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was
only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to
much concern.
Unfortunately,
that was not to be.
After
a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhoea. It's
amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the
food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
I
got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two
sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks,
and two toilet stalls against the back wall.
One
of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the
handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shiit,
but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than
my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire
cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shiit.
I
went to the normal stall.
In
retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even
though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the
stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I
had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical
proportions.
I
began "The Move."
For
those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The
Move."
Men
know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time
comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not
be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves
simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones
ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling
down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time.
It
is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless
expulsion of shiit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on
the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly
inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream
lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivalling
that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I
was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a
pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards
attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it
when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally,
I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the
pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And
once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by
the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a
rematch.
What
happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy,
but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
In
that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from
the goings-on at the other end.
To
put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet,
pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my oesophagus.
Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shiit no matter what
is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary
thing since shiitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind
to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and
perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.
At
that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a
wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed
In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most
suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shiit the consistency of
thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But
remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shiit wave
was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of
the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into
the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit
the toilet seat.
Then
I sat down.
Recall
that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had
actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as
relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point,
you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shiit
wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely
glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you
would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though
you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to
re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shiit remaining on about
one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now,
back to the vomit...
While
all the shiitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time
I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly
portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed.
OK,
so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting?
One
bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though.
Therefore,
bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs,
positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which
were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh,
did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic
on the ankles?
In
one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes,
and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the
inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
In
the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and
the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my
back covered in shiit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three
ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force
to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid
shiit. All while thick shiit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in
the shape of a toilet seat.
And
there was no fucking toilet paper.
What
could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who
then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was
laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed
down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have
the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the
toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I
simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening
in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask
my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left.
At
that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my
pants or something similarly benign.
About
two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong
and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still
laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and
needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past,
she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just
needed to being the car around so we could bolt immediately.
Until
I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the
street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and
(by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies)
new sneakers.
And
she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask
for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would
tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time
being.
She
left.
The
manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I
asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they
would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.
Without
giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall
that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what
with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly
above.
At
that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation.
Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally
grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately,
commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a
drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I
was in a commercial bathroom.
He
hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning
myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with
the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the
previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing
the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new
clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste
to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing
there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only
made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When
I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire
stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I
put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the
manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the
management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started
laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to
scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front
door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.